Red Eyed Crisis

July 31, 1968
by Amy

We’re in a crisis. I’m not being overly dramatic. It’s the reason I haven’t written sooner. Everything is in chaos, and some of us are moving into the offices so we can continue to work around the clock. Day/Night. Noon/Midnight. It doesn’t matter what time it is or what day it is.

The artists are gone. They’ve been replaced by medics, marshals, and organizers. There are the phone lines that accept incoming calls. We use the phone on Glasses’ desk to call the Streets and Sanitation Department, the Parks Department, and the Mayor’s office. Tom has met with representatives with the Mayor’s office while Glasses tries to tell the police that we can keep our own peace. We don’t need a high police presence.

The problems are two-fold. One of the most important is that we can’t get permits for people to sleep in Lincoln Park. We expect a hundred thousand people to come into Chicago. The city has neither the resources or the hotel space to accommodate the amount of artists, musicians, hippies and regular people who deserve to be a part of the convention. The city has a whole lot of land. Why won’t they let us use it?

The permits that we’ve requested during the convention have also been held up. Not granted. The Mayor’s office avoids our calls.

No one seems to understand that unless the city listens to us – and really hears us – it’s going to be bad. But if we say that, then it’s a threat. When Glasses tries to tell them that thousands of people are going to arrive here – soon – they tell us that it’s our fault.

Glasses responds that it isn’t our fault. They were going to come here regardless of what we did. This is a democracy. It’s the People’s Convention. They deserve to be heard.

All of us – without exception – know that we need to pull it together. If we make mistakes, it could cost people their lives. I feel a sense of responsibility about that. Unfortunately, the city of Chicago feels nothing.

So that’s where I am right now. Laying here on the floor, on a cushion. A can of fizzed out Cola, a pile of cigarette butts and scraps of papers filled with typos. At least I don’t have a bad case of baggy red eyes, unlike Glasses.

In the News: July 31, 1968